There are a staggering number of ways this is not. I take the gun, starting with the fact that if the Bratva didn’t know before that I have a personal interest in Anwyn, they’re about to be certain. And she’s my son’s ex-girlfriend. Yes.
Anwyn’s student house is squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder with its neighbours in a residential street, a 1980s design that style forgot.
George grits his teeth when I tell him to stay in the car when we arrive. He doesn’t like to allow me to go into a potentially dangerous situation alone, but in this case he can put up and shut up.
The front door is unlocked when I try it, and that makes me shake my head. Either I’m going to have to lecture Anwyn about security, or this is bad.
The house is quiet and dark. My feet are silent as I creep up the stairs. No point in alerting her housemates that something is going on. If indeed it is.
Never thought I’d say this, but I really hope I’m sneaking around a girls’ student house for no reason.
A door on the second floor is open, and I swear inwardly. The intel was correct.
My heart is in my throat as I look through Anwyn’s door. A man dressed in black is leaning over her. I aim my gun at him, but the shot isn’t clear. I’d hit my peacefully slumbering girl too.
My sleeping beauty.
There’s a glint of metal and I recognise a syringe. Shit. That bastard is going to drug her. The needle is in her arm when three things happen at once.
“No.” I step into the room. The Bratva kidnapper jerks up, and Anwyn’s eyes fly open.
I shoot. The silencer takes most of the sound. The bastard’s brains splatter over the wall behind the bed, and he collapses, dead, over Anwyn.
She lets out a sob, and sees me, her eyes wide with terror.
“Anwyn, it’s okay.” My voice is a gravelly whisper.
“Ben…” Her eyes roll back in her head and she slumps into the covers.
I dive forwards, and only just remember to shove the assassin’s body off Anwyn but not off the bed. He’s a big bastard. Can’t be waking Anwyn’s housemates.
The horror grips me as I gather her up in my arms. So small and delicate. She’s wearing pyjamas and is as floppy as a rope, but breathing.
If I’d been another minute later. If we hadn’t had that tipoff… Cold skitters over my skin at the thought. I could have lost her. If the Bratva had got her, I’d have torn down the whole of London to find her. Return her to my side, where she belongs.
Not letting her go, I frisk the pockets of the dead man, hoping for another vial. An antidote perhaps.
Nope. Blank.
It’s the work of a moment to scoop up Anwyn’s keys, hold her slight weight close to my chest. I work efficiently, locking doors behind us and sprinting to the car.
“Drive,” I snap and arrange Anwyn on my lap as we speed away. I cradle her, my heart thudding.
She called me Ben. Probably she meant to finish that word and say Benedict. A slip of the tongue. But hell. My girl called me by myname.
3
ANWYN
I feel like I’ve been in a tumble dryer. My mouth is woolly, my head is pounding.
Prising open my eyelids, I find Mr Crosse watching me. Or is it? My vision blurs in and out.
Is this a hallucination? Or a dream?
I try to remember how I got here, or where I am. But it’s dark when my eyes dart around, and I can’t focus on anything.
“Anwyn,” he sighs, and for once it doesn’t seem to be exasperation. “Water?”
